Three Kings and an Epiphany
by subsidingchaos
Summary: AU in which Sam tries to pull himself together. For the purpose of this story, S5 part 1 didn't happen and Sarah Swarek is more cuddly than a cactus. Language not used in polite company is present.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: apologies to those who have had a preview of this story, much of it was written last holiday season, but I decided it was time to give it an ending. I don't own any of the characters mentioned, the delightful people who created them are far above my pay grade. _

_This takes place right after Sam was shot, hope you enjoy a different version of the story we were told. _

He should be more of an asshole.

This is what Sam Swarek decides on day three of the "taking care of the invalid" calendar that has been hanging on his wall since he got home from the hospital. He should have been a bigger ass to his co-workers, then maybe he wouldn't find himself hiding in his own bathroom in frequent intervals, just to get some breathing room.

He is seriously contemplating taking up smoking.

When the doctor wanted him to go into a physical therapy unit after his release, Sam told him in no uncertain terms he was going against medical advice on that one. He wanted his own bed, his own shower, his own damn couch and TV and not to be poked, prodded or stuck every hour, for Christ's sake. The doctor had relented (it was, after all, only four days until Christmas – a holiday Sam had never been too fond of, a point he was not going to bring up to the man in charge of his parole) but only if he would agree to a home health nurse and having someone with him at all times during his waking hours.

Sam would have agreed to have a prostate exam every morning if it meant he didn't have to spend one more night amongst the incessant undertone of the sick and dying. (He wasn't dying, damn it, he was alive and intent on staying that way). What he didn't count on was how seriously his friends would take the orders of the doctor.

For a brief moment, he thought he was home-free. It took some doing, but he convinced Sarah to go home after she got him settled in that first night. She didn't handle being in the city well and he was well aware of the fact that her being by his side every moment he was in the hospital was going to cost her dearly. She was fiercely loyal and protective of her little brother, but she didn't have the bite to go with her bark.

She never did.

It would take her months to recover from this, the possibility of her never being the same is not lost on Sam either. He sometimes feels the pain he caused her more than the gaping hole in his stomach, knows that unintentionally hurting the women he loves is his own special talent.

While he was putting her in Oliver's car for the ride back to St Catherine's, she pulled him in close, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him so tight he could feel the worry radiating from her.

He tried to sooth her. "Hey, Sarah, don't. Please. I'm okay, I promise."

"No worries, Sare – we've got it covered", he overheard Oliver tell her.

He didn't even have time to consider what that might mean before Nash and Steve Peck pulled up to the curb, a Christmas tree tied to the roof.

"Before you say anything, Swarek – yes, this is your tree and yes, it is going up in your living room. No discussion."

Bossy women. Lucky him, he was surrounded by a shit-ton of them.

After they finished setting up the fire hazard in his front window, Nash went into his kitchen and took some magnets out to hang up a calendar on his fridge. "And this is your caregiver schedule – the nurse comes in the morning, then there are two shifts of six hours, everyday. No discussion here either. Frank says if you don't let people follow this, you'd better start polishing up your resume."

A career change was starting to sound more and more appealing.

Thus began the steady stream of people coming to babysit him while he was "on the mend"; Noelle doing his laundry, Peck and Epstein vacuuming and cleaning his apartment, Diaz, Frank and Oliver driving him to PT, everybody and their mother bringing him food. He soon discovered grumbling about it did him no good, in fact it seemed to make people smile at him and shake their heads – silly Swarek, he is just so predictable.

He wanted to set something on fire just to see if they would have any other reaction.

He really couldn't believe how many people volunteered to help him. Almost everyone he knew was on that list – patrol, Detective Bureau, Guns and Gangs, even some contacts he had while he was undercover. There was even a secondary list with another twenty names, in case someone had to cancel or he needed something in the middle of the night.

Of course, there were a few names missing – two of which brought him great relief and one… well he guessed he was relieved about that one too.

He could live with this.

He really had no other choice.

But when Callaghan showed up at his door on day three, the possibility that he actually was dead and in some level of hell became more than a passing thought. Both men spent the time sitting in front of the TV watching the Leafs game and nursing a six pack of fruity beer (fucking yuppie shit with a "hint of orange" – Sam resisted the urge to ask Callahan if he shaved his legs before he got there).

He did appreciate the other man not asking him if he needed anything or if he was comfortable. He guessed Callaghan understood far too well how much Sam hated the position he was in (didn't like to think about how much they had in common actually – or the fact that particular list kept getting longer and longer).

"Andy came to see me today." Luke took a long pull of his beer, eyes steady on the television, careful not to show any tells.

Sam stared at the screen, completely uninterested in the topic at hand (heart rate picking up like he was running the last mile of a 10K).

"She told me about your… disagreement in the hospital. Said you kicked her out, won't answer her calls, haven't spoken to her almost two weeks. You really are a special kind of idiot, aren't you?"

Sam remained stoic, nine years of playing poker with this guy didn't leave him empty handed (if his heart didn't slow down soon, his poker face would be the least of his problems).

_He woke up to find McNally with her head on the side of his hospital bed, neck crimped, hair in a gaint knot and a slight line of drool coming out of the corner of her mouth. Even in her sleep, he could see the blotchy puffy tell-tale signs of a person who had been crying for a long time._

_He had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire godforsaken life._

_She startled awake a second after that and a whole new round of fresh tears were shed. She grabbed his hand so tightly he thought the IV line was going to be embedded into the bone, but he squeezed back, near giddy with pain meds and having her so close again._

_In the end, it only took three days before reality reared its ugly head and he told her to go back to Collins and not look back._

"She wanted me to make sure you were really ok. Said she could trust me to tell her how you were really doing."

Sam was unable to hold back the snort.

"Anyway, I'll tell her your fine. Never better. On the mend."

Swarek barely nodded. "Ok, yeah. Thanks"

Luke got up to leave, asked him if he needed anything else as he was putting on his coat.

Sam needed a lot of things, but nothing Callaghan could give him.

Luke took several steps toward the door, then turned back to look at Sam. "She loves you, you know. It makes no sense at all… but even I have to admit it's clear as day. I would've have given anything for her to… You really are a special kind of idiot, Swarek."

And then he was gone, leaving Sam with the bitter taste of fruity beer in his mouth and his heart to die a slow death in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

_I don't own any of these characters - just using them for my own amusement. _

_When we last left our self-loathing hero, he was sitting with a beer, watching the hockey game and attempting to ignore his long-time nemesis, Luke Callaghan, while Luke discussed their mutual ex-love and the fact he thought Swarek was a moron of epic proportions. Callaghan leaves Sam alone, finally...alone with his own private thoughts..._

Staring into the darkening room, hockey game a forgotten blur of blue and red jerseys, Sam focused in on the four nail pops in the ceiling above the TV. They'd been there since he moved in almost ten years ago, but somehow they looked different to him now, as if they somehow should be healing themselves like the line of skin where the bullet, and then later the scalpel, carved an unwelcome pattern into his skin.

He really should have repaired them before now. He knows how, knows every step, learned everything he needed in order to fix it. In fact, it wasn't even that big of a job. Step ladder, hammer, drywall putty – he had everything he needed and yet…

He didn't fix them.

He sat and stared and wondered what the hell was wrong with him that he couldn't mend something any other moron could have handled much earlier with much less trouble.

He may just be that special of an idiot.

Forty minutes after Callaghan left (uh oh, somebody was going to be in trouble for leaving the toddler unattended), the Christmas Eve calvary arrived. Armed with red and green Jell-o fluff made with Christmas tree marshmallows, several bottles of wine, and a plethora of organic vegatables and turkey, Epstein, Peck, her pathologist girlfriend (girlfriend? Sam wondered just how long he was in that coma), Oliver and Celery descended on Sam's townhouse, determined to make sure he was not depressed for Christmas.

_"__Got to watch out, brother", Oliver told him on his first day home. "High rates of suicide around the holidays. People are lonely, not with the ones they love…"_

_Sam didn't think the holidays had much to do with it, but he only nodded at Oliver, attempting to placate him enough to change the subject._

Seeing no way out, Sam waved them in, wordlessly handing himself over to whatever Higher Power was going to get him through this night without him reacting the final scene of Christmas Vacation. He followed the happy holiday party into the living room and half-heartedly pointed to the dining area when Gail asked where they should set up dinner. Leaving the Island of Misfit Toys to figure out how to set the table (Peck was already instructing Dov, "No dummy, the fork goes to the LEFT of the plate. Geez, didn't mommy and daddy have a table in the love bus you grew up in?"), Sam wandered into the kitchen. He wanted to make sure there were no potions slipped into the food while he wasn't looking.

Celery stood at the sink, rinsing what looked to be a green toilet brush.

Sam looked at Oliver, an eyebrow raised in a "what the fuck is that?" expression.

"It's kale", Celery informed him, somehow reading his mind even though her back was turned. "It's an excellent anti-oxidant, very good for blood supply and healing".

Sam was already plotting ways to surreptitiously hide it in the potted plant by the front door.

He really needed a dog.

A green toilet brush eating dog.

Oliver went over to her, arms wrapping around her waist, head resting on her shoulder. She leaned back into him, smiling and closing her eyes in easy intimacy.

Sam smiled, chest filling up with relief and happiness that his friend had finally found someone who knew what a great guy he was.

The feeling didn't last long.

"What about the stuff for ..Sam's food", Oliver mock whispered.

"Stuff?" Celery whispered back, both of them glancing obviously over their shoulders at Sam.

"You KNOW, the stuff that will make him stop being an idiot and let the love of his life actually LOVE him".

"Ohhhhhh, that." Celery stood up and turned around and looked right at Sam. Stared at him so intently and directly, he began to mentally bolster himself for a hostile interrogation.

"He doesn't need one."

"No? Is he that hopeless?" Oliver teased, eyes sparkling. (Sam was beginning to wonder what things were sprinkled on HIS Wheaties every morning).

"No", she said again, eyes never leaving Sam's.

Sam stared back. If she wanted to play voodoo with him, she had another. thing. coming. Sam Swarek was capable of a lot of things, but being scared off by a cute witch was not one of them.

"Love potions are for people who need help realizing their love for someone. Sam doesn't need that. In fact, he is so aware of his love it is overshadowing his courage – something he has a great deal of. It must be very powerful, this love, enough to last a lifetime – and them some".

Her eyes showed something akin to sympathy as she stood with her arms crossed, waiting for his rebuttal.

Sam decided he would help set the table after all. HE knew where to put the fork.

The rest of the dinner passed without incident. In fact, even the Grinch himself had to admit the food was delicious (who knew kale was edible when paired with cranberries and oranges) and the company entertaining.

They sat and ate and laughed at stories about Oliver and Sam's rookie years and before Sam even had the inclination to plan a way to kick them out, the night was over.

Hugs and handshakes distributed, wishes of Merry Christmas given, and calls of careful driving shouted out in the night and finally had his house to himself again.

All to himself.

Again.

Turning off the lights on his way back to his bedroom, he realized how tired and sore he really was. He hated feeling so worn out, especially since he wasn't doing anything but letting other people take care of him.

As he pulled the sheets back on the bed, he tried hard not to notice the silence that never bothered him before – a not so gentle reminder that he was indeed alone.

Very alone.

The screen on his phone flashed, vibrating a low drumline on the table with the announcement he had received a text.

Picking it up, he looked to see just who would be sending him a message at midnight on Christmas Eve.

The Ghost of Christmas Past, showing him flashes of a childhood lost (or maybe just one he had always longed for)? Jolly old St. Nick, advising him he was, once again, on the Naughty List? Or maybe an angel announcing tidings of great joy – guess what, Swarek, you no longer have to live in darkness?

_"__Merry Christmas, Sam"._

It was from McNally.

He stared at it for a moment, stopped his fingers from typing in the reply reverberating in his head – "Go climb back into bed, McNally, your boyfriend is missing you".

_(Merry Christmas.  
>I miss you.<br>I wish you were here.  
>I wish I was holding you.<em>

_…. I love you.)_

He put the phone back on the table and walked to the bedroom window overlooking the street.

It was snowing.

Coming down in soft haphazard flakes, it made the street look like the inside of a snow globe.

Perfect.

It was a perfect Christmas night.

Bracing his stomach with one arm, Sam pushed the window open with the other. The subzero air rushed at him, instantly changing the warm scene into an uncomfortable vortex of pain and frigidness.

He stood there for a long time, waiting for the bitter cold to freeze his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N for clarification, Sam didn't text anything back to McNally - he is busy shutting her out, but his thoughts betray his true feelings about the situation. Thank you to everyone who took the time to share your thoughts. I don't own any characters in this story. Also, this chapter has some religious undertones, I meant no harm or disrespect and no Catholics were hurt during production - I don't think anyway. Reminder: some rough language is used. _

A few days after New Year's, Sam stood waiting by his front window for his ride to P.T. He felt like a kid again, and not in a good way, the memories of having to hitch rides to get anywhere still fresh in his mind. He'd hated having to rely on people that were often wholly unreliable – bought himself a car (even if it was a total piece of shit) as soon as he'd scraped together enough money when he was seventeen. Out of necessity, he'd also learned how to fix it and promised himself that one day, he would have a new car, hell, a truck even, that wouldn't need constant coaxing and maintenance to start every morning.

Fifteen years later, he finally got his wish when he bought his F-150 – special ordered it, made sure it was exactly what he wanted, every detail down to the tread on the tires. He loved that truck, or more what it represented, he guessed. For once in his life, Sam got something that was his – that was made for just him, something that he worked for and earned.

Except.

Except now it didn't seem to matter as much anymore. It had been sitting for almost four weeks, and according to the doctor, it would sit for another two at least. In fact, when Oliver suggested he maybe loan it out to someone who could take care of it, start it up every day, knew the brakes were touchy, and had to ask for rides from other people (eyebrows raised on the last with obvious meaning), he almost handed the keys over to Shaw to pass on to that someone.

But no.

He was done. He had sent her away. Relieved her of all the pain he caused her and was certain to cause her in the future. He sent her to be happy. With him.

Not Sam but Collins.

Now here he was, truck in his spot in the carport, unable to take care of himself, once again relying on someone else. He hated it. But then…

As much as it pained it to admit it, he did like his friends being around. Liked his house full of laughter and the bustling sounds of people actually giving a shit about what happened to him. It was humbling in a way. He had sold these people, these constants in his life, short. They were good and honest and true and …he loved them. He did. And he appreciated the effort it took to care about someone who was as big of a pain in the ass as he was.

The New Year's Eve poker party was a perfect example of how far they would go to keep him happy (and, Sam was fairly certain, make sure he didn't eat his gun to start off the new year right). This particular party had been the brainchild of Epstein. He planned the whole thing, even had a sign up sheet on what appetizers to bring. The only glitch was when Gail insisted she wanted to play too – a scenario that Dov was not going to let fly now that he was, finally, a part of the official man-clan.

_"No way, Gail. Just because you've decided you're a switch hitter now, does NOT mean you get to play poker with the guys."_

"_Gee that's too bad Dov, I was just talking to Holly about how awesome you would be in a threesome."_

_"Really?!"_

_"No. Not really, man-boy. I like to actually enjoy sex."_

_Sam grinned in amusement. "Peck's in."_

The night had definitely been the high point of what Sam called his life since he was shot. There were so many guys, (Peck was the only female with enough chutzpa to withstand the maleness of the event) they had three separate tables going – the whole main level of his townhouse converted into a casino. If half of both 15 and 27 Divisions weren't in attendance, he would have worried about being busted for illegal gambling.

He was so involved in the game, and the cigars, and the harassment of Diaz and Epstein, he (almost) forgot to look at his phone more than a dozen times as the midnight hour approached.

(He absolutely was not looking for a text from McNally).

When the countdown was over and beer bottles were still being clinked across the living room, Peck approached him with a predatory look. Sam saw her coming but before he had the chance to ask what the hell she was up to now, she was giving him a big wet kiss, much to the enjoyment of the other men present.

Amid the wolf whistles and catcalls, she pulled away and looked him straight in the eyes. Leaning forward, she whispered in the tone only a pretty drunk girl can manage with grace, _"It's not from me, you big jackass."  
><em>  
>Sam lost a lot of money while he was mulling over that particular gem. Went to bed with both his wallet and his heart lighter than when the night started...<p>

Outside Diaz honked his horn, breaking him from his reverie. With a sigh, Sam headed out the door and began to mentally prepare himself for a fifteen-minute ride with the ever-affable Chris Diaz.

He had to hand it to the guy though. When Diaz's whole world caved in, he lost no time picking up the pieces of his old life, saving what was salvageable, and throwing away the rest.

Sam was envious of more than Diaz's ability to clip himself into a seatbelt without groaning in pain.

"Hey, Swarek, how ya feeling?" Chris asked him on the way home two hours later.

Sam sighed. "I'm fine, Diaz. As fine as a guy who got shot in the belly can be. My P.T. thought I was doing so well today, he had me doing stuff I'm pretty sure is banned by the Geneva Convention. I'm thinking he went to the Pol Pot School of Physical Therapy. "

Chris stared at him blankly. "I just meant maybe you could take care of an errand with me? I mean, if you're not too tired…"

"I'm good to go." Sam jumped at the chance to stay away from the empty house a bit longer, not even checking to see if the errand would bring him to 15 (and maybe hoping that it would).

When they pulled into the parking lot of a church in the crappy end of town, Sam looked at Diaz, eyebrow raised in an unspoken question.

"I help out a couple times a month. You know, with the outreach van. Father Jean-Pierre called me yesterday and asked if I could help today – their regular has the flu."

When Sam didn't jump right out of the Jeep, Chris began to back pedal a bit.

"If you want, you can stay here, you know, maybe take a nap if you're tired…"

That clinched it. Sam was not too tired to pour weak coffee into some Styrofoam cups. He opened to door and did his best imitation of a person who was not in extraordinary pain.

"Come on, Diaz, let's get going - crappy coffee awaits."

It turned out Sam was actually tired. Very tired and sore as hell, he only lasted 45 minutes in the cold before he found himself looking for a place to warm up and sit down for a minute. Sam sighed when he saw the only available option was the looming building in front of him. Bracing himself he pushed open the heavy door, hoping like hell the whole building wouldn't collapse when he passed through the archway.

The church was quiet, just like he remembered. The pungent smell of the incense that had been burned there since masses were said in Latin was still present in the wooden pews, a hint of a long since gone ritual. Sam slid into the back row, careful to not disturb the lone woman kneeling in front of a bank of candles.

The second time they were taken away from their mother, he and Sarah lived with a nice elderly lady for about a year and a half. She was a devout Catholic, went to church at least twice a week, something Sam had never known anyone to do before. (His old man's idea of evoking God was to call to his son, "Jesus Christ, can't you do anything fucking right?"). Lying in a tiny bedroom at the back of her little house, he would hear her praying at night –asking forgiveness for sins a twelve year old boy couldn't fathom an old lady could be guilty of.

Pieces of the prayer came back to him now, the message breaking through the fog of time and childhood understanding.

_I have sinned through my own fault…_  
>Well acquainted with things being his fault, Sam felt the weight of his guilt bearing down hard on his shoulders, the quiet of the church leaving nothing to distract him from his thoughts.<p>

His own miserable private thoughts.

_Through my fault..._  
>a sister he couldn't save, even from herself, a mother he couldn't protect from a raging drunk.<p>

_through my fault…_  
>a best friend bleeding out as Sam looked on, knees sticky with Jerry's blood and brain unable to wrap itself around the dying light in his eyes.<p>

_through my most grievous fault._  
>the disbelieving hurt in a girlfriend's (love of his life's) eyes as he, once again, broke them both into pieces with his inability to just let himself be happy.<p>

Sitting with his head in his hands, Sam breathed in the enormity of the pain his heart had been forced to carry for what seemed like his entire life.

He sat and breathed. It seemed all he was capable of doing anymore.

After what may have been hours, or just minutes, he felt the presence of someone next to him and looked up to see that Father Jean-Pierre, the pastor of church, had slid into the pew next to him.

If Sam looked like he was in distress, the priest didn't let on. (Sam figured he had seen more than his fair share of distressed people in his day).

"You're the officer that was shot last month. My Women's Guild have been wondering how you are, if you enjoyed the casseroles."

Sam thought of the dozens of trays stacked in his freezer, each one its own culinary delight (cream of mushroom soup, tator tots, cream cheese) of heartburn and indigestion. He figured Oliver would eat them when he came over looking for an escape from the witch's healthy cuisine.

He gave the priest a weak smile. "Yes, I did. Please...please thank them for me." (Next time include some antacids, he wanted to add but didn't. Sam wasn't sure priests had a sense of humor - wasn't exactly part of the job description).

Both men sat in silence for awhile, the only sound the low undertone of the women praying to the row of dollar store candles.

Sam broke it first.

"You...I remember you from our case last year. You helped us bring in that dirtbag gangster - the one that burned kids." Sam also remembered it had come out that priest had fathered a son, and the boy didn't know it until his father tried to kill the man who attempted to initiate him by burning holes into his arm.

"Yes. And I remember you were one of the officers that helped me reconcile with my son, Thomas, and his mother."

Sam nodded, glad the elephant in the room was out in the open. "How is Thomas? How's he doing now?"

The other man sighed and Sam was startled to realize their wasn't much age difference between the two of them. The other man looked tired and haggard too - Sam guessed being a priest in a high crime area wasn't exactly a stress free job.

Father Jean-Pierre looked away. "My son… I had a hard time being there for him even after my sins were out in the open. Had a hard time facing the boy I had hurt with my absence. It took me awhile to get to a place where I could see him, could be a part of his life. I almost lost him again."

The priest stopped and looked at Sam.

"Of course, I finally realized I had to forgive myself first. Thomas had forgiven me, his mother had forgiven me, and of course God had forgiven me, but I couldn't get passed the pain I caused with my own fear. It was difficult - the hardest thing I've ever done - but it was worth it. His love was more than worth it."

Sam swallowed and looked down. Wondered if his own guilt was as big as the billboard he felt it was.

Father Jean-Pierre stood up and began to edge his way out of the pew. "Christopher was worried about you. I'll just let him know you're in here, resting your soul for awhile."

A few quiet footsteps later he was gone.

_Forgive me for what I have done..._

Sam sat in the silence of his aloneness, eyes stinging, heart expanding with each breath.

_and what I have failed to do..._

He sat and waited for the forgiveness to come.


	4. Chapter 4

_It seems Sam had his visits from his "wise men", now he just needs a miracle..._

_Thank you to everyone who left comments - still don't own these characters. _

The ride home from the church was quiet. Chris didn't offer anything up in conversation (a miracle in itself as far as Sam was concerned) but he kept taking sidelong glances at Sam, as if he expected to see him break down any minute.

Sam did feel like a bus ran him over, and if he looked anywhere near as tired as he felt he could understand the looks Diaz was giving him. He just wanted to sleep. Sleep and not think of anything more important than the score of the Leafs game or what casserole delight he was going to heat up for dinner. He certainly was not going to think about his biggest regret and how he would give anything if he could have yet another chance to make it right.

Chris pulled up to Sam's townhouse and offered to go out and get him groceries if he needed anything. Sam refused, citing the fact that Traci and Noelle had stopped by earlier that morning, bringing a bag of fresh fruit and a smiley, gregarious baby Ninja. A real charmer that one. Frank was going to be a basket case by the time she was thirteen.

With obvious effort, Sam got out of the car and paused in the doorway.

"Thanks, Diaz, I mean it. Thanks for everything. You all have been great these last few weeks. I…I'm lucky to have such good friends".

Chris smiled at him. "Nothing to do with luck. You reap what you sow".

Sam raised a hand in a silent good-bye as he unlocked the door and let himself into his increasingly silent house. (When the hell did it get so quiet around here?) He shuffled around his kitchen, preparing another solitary meal.

A half hour later he was sitting in front of his TV, a plate of non-descript chicken and broccoli and a luke-warm beer resting on the coffee table. He sat and stared at the wall for a long time, trying hard not to think of truck keys, ambulance rides, and a particular mega-watt smile…

Sitting up with a jolt, Sam realized two things almost immediately – he had fallen asleep sitting up and something had jarred him awake. A second later, another knock alerted him to the fact that it was indeed a someone, not a something that disturbed his awkward slumber.

Squinting at the clock on the DVD player, he saw it was late. Very late in fact – too late for it to be anything but bad news.

Groaning with the dull ache in his gut and pin pricks of pain stabbing him in the lower back, Sam hoisted himself up from the couch and shuffled his way to the front door.

The knocking came again, insistent this time.

"Ok, OK, I'm coming", Sam grumbled at the closed door. "Hold your friggin' water".

He unlocked and opened the door with a huff, ready to lay into the asshole that decided he needed a visitor at 11:30 at night.

Standing on his porch, shifting from one foot to the other, loaded down with a bulky package and clad in a huge purple ski parka was Andy McNally. Fresh snow clung to her coat, chestnut hair spilled out beneath her hat, and her cheeks were rosy with the cold. The streetlight glowed behind her, framing her in soft white light.

All that was missing was a pair of wings.

Sam gaped at her.

"Hey", she said, breathless. "I was getting worried you weren't home".

Finding his voice again, Sam looked at her, eyebrow raised in 'really, McNally?' exasperation.

"And where would I be, McNally? Doing a few laps in the park?"

Unperturbed by his gruffness, McNally grinned at him. "Can I come in? It's freezing out here".

Sam found the presence of mind to step back and gesture for her to step inside.

Watching her shake off the snow and unzip her jacket, he realized he needed to stop standing there and staring at her like a moron and finally found his voice.

"What are you doing here, McNally? And how the hell did you get here, a dog sled team?"

"Bus!" She looked at him like a triumphant little girl. "I had to bring your present. Merry Christmas!" She thrust the snow covered package at him.

"Uh, I hate to be the one to tell you, McNally, but Santa left the building a while ago".

"Nope", she stated with certainty. "Tomorrow, well today in a few minutes, is the twelfth day of Christmas. It's the Epiphany."

"Epiphany….right". The words came out of his mouth slowly, as if he would somehow have a better understanding of what the hell she was talking about if he said it slowly enough.

"You know, when the Wise Men followed the star and finally found the stable Jesus was in". She looked at him like this was everyday knowledge, like he just admitted to not knowing the sun rose every morning.

"I'm familiar with the story, McNally. What does this have to do with you showing up at my doorstep in the middle of the night?"

"I just got off shift, and I knew you would be watching the game and well…I just really wanted you to have your present before Christmas was over".

Sam looked at her. "Andy…you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have gotten me anything".

(She should run. Run far and fast and don't look back because if she didn't leave now…)

She stood tall and stared back. Sam could see the Irish stubborn temper bubbling to the surface.

"Well, Sam Swarek, I am not sure if you are aware, but you don't get to dictate what I do and who I'm friends with. I decide. NOT you. You don't want to be my friend, fine, but I am yours. I am your friend, Sam and I won't stop – no matter how big of a douche bag you are to me. Are we clear?".

He stared her. Did she really just… He nodded slightly, not sure of what else to do.

"Fine. Then open your gift. You'll like it, I promise".

She picked up the box and carried it into the living room.

Sam followed and sat down next to her, still trying to wrap his mind around the idea that she was here – on his couch. She pushed the box toward him and looked at him expectantly while he unwrapped the packaging.

"It's a mattress pad?". He looked at her, absolutely at a loss as to how he was to respond to a mattress pad as a gift.

"No! I mean, yes it is, but it's a HEATED mattress pad. I was reading about how with abdominal injuries, you can really end up with a sore back because the muscles are compensating for the injury and well…I thought you would like some heat on your back while you slept. They are the most awesome thing, ever. I have one. I remember you loved the one on my bed and…" She finally stopped talking when it dawned on her what she just said, a look of horror on her face.

Sam couldn't help himself. "Well, you got me, that was definitely my favorite thing about your bed".

Grinning at him, she held the box up, "Want me to help you get it on?"

Sam looked at her, unable to hide the emerging smirk.

"Wait… I mean… Sam! You know what I meant!"

(If she only knew what he would give to have her "get it on" anywhere near his bed. How many dreams, of both the day and the night varieties, he had in the past few days… weeks… years...)

She blushed furiously.

She was beyond beautiful.

"Come on, McNally. I guess a warm bed wouldn't be the worst thing in the world".

They spent the next half hour putting on the new mattress pad (McNally finding an outlet was a great source of entertainment, especially when her shirt rode high enough for him to catch a glimpse of the bottom of her bra) and putting fresh sheets on the bed, even after Sam insisted they weren't dirty.

"Whatever, Swarek - you are getting clean, fresh sheets. There hasn't been anyone on the schedule to do it in the last week".

Suddenly it occurred to Sam that the schedule may have been missing McNally's name, but not her planning. She had found a way to be there, even when he had behaved like a complete asshole and had made sure he was as unloveable as possible.

He was still trying to formulate the words to apologize when she looked at her watch and announced she had to go, the last bus left his corner in a half hour. She walked into the living room in search of her coat, leaving Sam in the middle of his bedroom with a decision to make.

With trembling hands, he went to his closet and pulled out a small narrow box. Still wrapped in the red paper in was placed in last Christmas, Sam gripped it tightly and headed into the living room after McNally.

"I...McNally, about your Christmas present...", he began.

She interrupted him before he had a chance to spit it out. "Sam, its totally ok. You didn't know I was getting you anything. It's not like we have been in a good gift giving place or anything so..." She stopped when she saw the package in his hand.

He held it out to her. "This..(he cleared his throat) It's for you. Um, it's been for you for over a year now".

She took it and, after getting an affirmative nod from him, carefully unwrapped the paper until she held what was obviously a jewelry box in her hand.

Slowly, as if she were opening a vault of hidden treasure, she pried the box open.

Inside, shining against a pink strip of satin, lay a delicate pale gold necklace. At the center was a gold pendant in the shape of the infinity symbol, two gem stones on either side of the center.

"Oh" she breathed. "Oh Sam… it's… oh, it's beautiful".

She looked up at him, eyes suddenly glassy, fingers lovingly following the figure eight pattern.

"Aquamarine – because you have a March birthday and Citrine because… " He stopped, a lump in his throat not allowing him to explain further.

"Because your birthday is November 3rd", she finished for him.

He nodded, equally touched by the fact that she knew the birthday he neither celebrated nor even mentioned, and by her enraptured look at the jewelry he had painstakingly picked out after Jerry planted the idea in his head.

_Breathing heavily after their sparring match, Sam and Jerry were toweling off some of the sweat before heading to the showers and getting ready for parade. It was the first time they had met in weeks, Jerry lost in newly engaged bliss and unwilling to leave Traci._

_"So buddy, you think about what you're gonna get Andy for Christmas, yet?"_

_Sam had in fact already thought of a present. He picked it out last week and even had the store gift wrap it since his wrapping skills consisted of using electrical tape and a paper bag. It didn't exactly scream 'Merry Christmas'. Besides, McNally was known for snooping and he didn't want to spoil the surprise._

_"Yep. A gold necklace all bought, wrapped and ready to deliver"._

_Sam grinned. He knew his friend expected him to not have even thought about a present._

_Sam looked over at Jerry in time to catch his friend's "oh, Sammy" look._

_"What? What's wrong with that? It's jewelry. You don't think she'll like it?" Sam frowned, pride in the gift instantly crushed._

_"No, no, it's a nice gift", his friend continued, "in a non-committal sort of way"._

_Sam snorted._

_"You think I should be buying her a diamond? Misery loves company?" Sam teased even though he knew Jerry was the furthest thing from miserable._

_(In fact, Sam did spent quite a few minutes taking a look in the diamond case at the jewelers, something he wouldn't admit to Jerry, even if someone threatened to waterboard him again)._

_"Look Sammy, Andy's not just any girl. I know it, you know it, and anyone who has ever seen you look at her knows it. I just think maybe you should get her something special, something that shows her how you really feel about her"._

_Sam took the necklace back the next day and spent over an hour looking at designs and stones. Three days later he went back and special ordered what he wanted. Jerry was right, he needed to give her something made just for her, something special._

_Sam's days of buying generic gifts were over.  
><em>  
>"The jeweler said he had never seen these two stones paired up before, that it was an interesting combination. Both of their colors change when they are next to each other…"<p>

"They borrow each other's shine" she finished.

McNally raised her head and looked into Sam's eyes. "Sam, I can't keep this – it's too expensive, it's way too nice to give to a friend".

Her eyes still never left his, they pleaded with him to tell her she was right – it was not a gift for a friend.

He opened his mouth to tell her he wanted her to have it, it conveyed only a small percentage of his feelings for her, that he made sure the pendant had room for more birthstones when the need arose...

But his mouth betrayed him. Again.

"You can take it back, get yourself something you'd like, anything you want, maybe a new watch or something…"

His words punctured the air, deflating any hope he had that this could somehow end with her in his arms, in his life, in his forever.

He stared as her eyes filled with new tears, a cornucopia of pain reflecting in them as he watched them darken.

She looked at him and smiled.

It would have hurt Sam less if she had punched him in his wound.

He wished with all his heart that she would.

Zipping up her coat and stuffing the box in her pocket, she stepped forward and gave him a caste kiss on the cheek.

"Good Night, Sam".

And then she was gone out the door and down the sidewalk before Sam could even get himself together enough to whisper after her.

"I love you, Andy".


	5. Chapter 5

_A short linking chapter before we get to the end. Please be forewarned, the F bomb is used several times in this chapter. Still don't own these characters._

Sam spent the first ten minutes after she left pacing his living room, working hard to not put his fist right through his drywall in frustration (screw the nail pops, let's do some real damage). When he was sure he could at least sit on the couch without burning a hole of rage into it, he flopped down, slammed his feet onto the coffee table and tilted his head back to rest on the cushions.

He turned his head to stretch and stopped when his eye caught something on the side table. A tower of Christmas and get well cards lay stacked there, where they had been for the last few weeks, most not even opened. He pushed the pile over and begin going through them, looking for one in particular that had come in a few days after he got home from the hospital.

It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for.

In his hand laid a light blue envelope with a return address from Miami, his name in familiar loopy handwriting on the front. He paused momentarily before ripping it open and pulling out a simple notecard. In his current state, he no longer saw any reason to avoid the message written inside, might as well rub salt in the old wound, eh, Swarek?

The message was simple and to the point. Given the author, Sam was not even a little surprised at its brevity.

_Sorry can't even begin to describe how badly I feel about everything that happened, but I guess it's the only thing left to say. I am sorry – for so many things, but I am not sorry about what we had._

Be happy, Sam. In the end, it's the only thing that matters.

_Marlo_

He read it twice before tossing it onto the floor and hoisting himself off the couch with an audible sigh. Just another piece of evidence proving what denying what you really wanted (needed) got you - a big fucking mess and another unintentional casualty.

Whomever said all was fair in love and war clearly had not a clue as to how bad it could really get. Sam was pretty sure not one damn thing that happened in the last month was even remotely close to fair, least of all to Marlo.

He stomped through the living room and kitchen, swearing and calling himself a fucking idiot while he shut off the lights. Banging down the hallway to his bedroom, he stopped short in the doorway when he saw his bed.

Pillows plumped, sheets turned down, orange light on the mattress pad dial glowing, it sat there and mocked him.

Less then an hour ago, she was here.

She was here and he had hurt her. Again.

For a moment, Sam was afraid he was he was actually going to weep. He even found himself taking the deep shuttering breaths he mastered when he was six and developed his love of the smell of gasoline and grass clippings.

_(Don't you fucking cry. Don't you do it. Only fucking pansy-asses cry, Sammy-boy. And no son of mine is going to be a pansy.)_

He didn't want this clean, warm (empty) bed. He didn't want this damn empty house. He didn't want to keep his secrets and his heart locked up. He didn't want to live his life in a constant haze of grief over what might have been if he had just been brave enough to be the man he wanted to be.

Enough.

Enough of all the bullshit baggage he carried with him. Enough of believing she was better off without him. Enough of trying to convince himself he could find anything that resembled any kind of happiness without her.

He was done.

Determined not one more night would pass without him telling her how he really felt, he raced back through the townhouse and opened the front closet. Yanking on his ski jacket, gloves, and even a touque, he pulled open the front door and stepped out into the bitter night air.

He thought about taking his truck, but remembered his doctor's stern warning that there was to be no driving for another two weeks. His abdominal muscles were not strong enough to allow for his leg muscles to move quickly and the last thing he needed was to wrap his truck around a pole when he wasn't supposed to be driving in the first place. Walking would have to do. Besides, it would give him time to figure out how the hell he was going to get McNally to listen and not tell him to piss off once and for all.

Bracing himself against the wind, he headed in the direction of the old toilet factory, about thirty blocks away.

Sam Swarek was going to get his girl.


End file.
